Watching: A Series of Vignettes
by iwantalife
Summary: He watches her. She watches him. Atrus and his grandmother Anna have always looked out for each other. But at the end of her days...


**Written for UruObsession's now-dead fic challenge. All characters belong to Cyan, but do enjoy.**

* * *

He is sound asleep, slumped awkwardly in a hard-backed chair that can only give him grief when he wakes up. Already there is a mild grimace on his face, shadowed by the shock of tousled hair falling over his forehead. He isn't aware that I am watching, even from here in my bed. That I've always watched over him, whenever and wherever I could, the child of my heart.

But I can no longer do so. Betrayed by age, I find myself being torn away from him slowly and imperceptibly. Trembling hands. Unfocused sight. Exhaustion creeping up on me like a cloud sliding silently over land. Where did the years go?

I have lain here for two days, time trickling through my weakened fingers. The end is near and I am not afraid. But leaving him behind… I shudder at the inevitable, chills wracking my body as I toss restlessly beneath the thick blanket.

He stirs briefly and I still, not wanting to disturb him from sleep that has been hard to come by. Between his projects, his wife and the boys, he sits here still, guarding his ailing grandmother's rest, eating only when Catherine brings food and urges him to look after his own health. The boys only stand at the doorway, peering at their father.

I squint and see the beginnings of burdens lining his visage; Atrus, ever the worrier. As a child, he would sit at the dinner table after clearing the dishes, his brow furrowed in concentration as he worked on his numerous experiments, Flame nibbling on dropped morsels at his feet. After we lost Flame, he withdrew for months, the guilt waking him up in a cold sweat at night. I remember coaxing him back to sleep, gently rocking him and humming an old caravan tune my father taught me.

When he first showed me J'nanin and its learning Ages, he stood there on the sunny, sandy path, his hands tucked shyly behind his back, his pensive eyes searching mine for a glimpse of approval. How unnecessary that was; he was everything I could be proud of, this child and man.

Oh Maker, I cannot leave now! I left another behind before and it tore my soul in two. Why can't I stay?

* * *

She sleeps, her chest rising and falling slowly in weak breaths that I always fear will cease the next moment. Her hair has changed shades through the years, like the leaves of the summer and autumn trees. It is now a snowy white with the subtle remaining streaks of grey. I brush back a few stray strands before leaning back into the hard-backed desk chair.

The cramped muscle in my back is already protesting the last four hours spent in the chair, but I cannot leave. For all the years she has spent watching over me and keeping me safe from harm, it is all I can do for her now.

She is dying; I need no healer to tell me that. And in some way, I should have prepared myself for this. Old age has a peculiar way of crawling up behind you and slowly tightening the noose around your neck. No, not this macabre. But I feel a rage, boiling anger that I cannot save her the way she saved me.

I have sat here for two days, day and night, looking at her wrinkled brow and wondering if I could have done anything, at all, to keep her with me for just a little longer. I have too much to tell her, too much to show her. While nothing brings me greater joy than being able to share worlds with my family, Anna is… different.

She used to tell me stories of her childhood in the desert, of caravans and tradesmen bartering dry goods in the barren lands. On the rare occasion that it rained, I would see such joy and energy in her eyes that made her seem like the world had begun anew. No one else I knew appreciated water as much as she did.

I chuckle lightly as I remember the first time we linked to Channelwood. The trees that spiraled into the slightly overcast skies, the gentle lapping of water against each massive tree trunk. Elements that opposed the terrain she was so familiar with. She had gasped in delight then, her hand to her mouth as she craned her head back to try and see the crown of the trees. And I found myself at a loss for words to describe the warmth in my heart.

She is my mother in so many ways. And losing her, watching her pale and weak, I feel like I'm losing a part of my heart.

* * *

It was raining the day we buried Anna.

The boys and I stood under the shelter of the library porch, watching Atrus stand mutely over her tombstone, muddied and soaked in the freezing rain, with his head bowed and shoulders slumped.

She had left silently in the night; it wasn't until the next morning when Atrus tried to wake her that he realized that she was gone. And it was Atrus, pale and trembling, who came to me with the news and rested his head on my shoulder, the grief weighing heavily upon him.

I pulled my coat around me tightly and ventured into the driving rain. Placing my hands on his chilled shoulders, I gently turned him to face me. His eyes were filled with a vacant sadness, a remote realization that death overcomes us all at a time or another. Pulling him into my embrace, I felt his arms go around me and his shoulders began to shake silently with forceful sobs.

"She did so much for me," he managed to squeeze out between cries. "And I could never give her anything back in return. Nothing."

Rubbing circles on his back the way my mother had taught me when comforting babies, I whispered in his ear, "But you did, Atrus. You were already the greatest gift she could have ever received. You made her proud and you filled her life with family and joy. And that is worth everything."

We stood there for another ten minutes before I could coax him into returning to the warmth of the library fireplace. Still he lingered solemnly, watching his grandmother's grave from the doorway of the library, until the boys came to tug their father to a quiet dinner.


End file.
